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THE ART OF SYNTAX

down:' This "chunking" is the essential work of syntax, and it is how we make meaning: from a rudimentary set of principles (Chomsky's requisite deep structure), we generate or interpret surface structures of infinite variety that combine, in parsable sequence, words from our acquired lexicons. After years of exposure to hundreds of thousands of these surface structures, each bearing its own direct and/or trace connections to the English fundament of subject-verb-(object), we can, like Fond Parent, expect a grown-up Emily to understandperhaps even compose-something like this: Back out of all this now too much for us, Back in a time made simple by the loss Of detail, burned, dissolved, and broken off Like graveyard marble sculpture in the weather, There is a house that is no more a house Upon a farm that is no more a farm And in a town that is no more a town.

The first sentence of Robert Frost's "Directive" depends on the same deep structure evoked by the toddler's partial utterance even as it uses longer musical phrases in a more complex relation to one another. Syntax identifies the order in which these strings or chains or chunks of language appear. When the chunk differ in relative weight and grammatical importance,

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as they do here, the surface structure That is, the sentence contains more than one clause, 1);rt;rt1east one of them is more p~ful than the oth-ers, controlling everything -;ith its independent subJeC an predicate. (As a reminder of the deep structure underlying our language, I will call that essential chunk of syntax "the fundament" throughout this book.) Hypotaxis names one of the kinds of common surface structures we routinely recognize in English. It is a characteristic rhythm of adult thought, processed by listening or reading brains as they would a Brahms concerto. While neurolinguistics has provided a useful tool for musicology, music is in turn a helpful analog for any consideration of artistic language use. Phrasing in music, Jourdain reminds us, "is nothing like [musical] meter. For one thing, its markers are more subtle. Where meter presents a regular, mostly predictable succession of emphasized notes, phrasing constantly varies:' Dynamics, harmony, melodic line, variations in rhythm-all can be "markers" in music, notifying the listener where phrases begin and end, enabling a "series of distinct musical shapes extending across time:' Rhythmic markers in particular "cut up a torrent of notes into bite-size chunks;' with small chunks then grouped into larger chunks, to enable "our perception of complex hierarchies:'

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THE ART OF SYNTAX

Syntax supplies language most of its similar markers, and we've known many of them since childhood. A period marks a sentence as a discrete structure, composed primarily of moveable parts or chunks (noun phrase, verb phrase, etc.) that are processed by the brain sequentially. As soon as a group of words makes tentative sense, we file it away temporarily, according to its relationship to the fundament, and look for the next one. In language as in music, repetitionwhether lexical (the same words) or grammatical (the same function for the words) or syntactical (the same arrangement of the words)-also marks phrases or chunks. As in music, these units can also be grouped into even larger chunks, paragraphs or stanzas, to form astonishingly elaborate but comprehensible structures. In Frost's opening lines, pentameter and anaphora (re eated head of the line) are clear markers (Back .. . , Back), reinforced by the cleverly opposed prepositions (Back out . .. Back in . . .). Other markers are implied by parallel function. Burned, dissolved, and broken off, three past participles, attached to the same noun, contain trace elements of elided clauses: [which was] burned, [which was] dissolved, [which was] broken off. The human brain is avid for pattern, by which to register, store, and retrieve information-and parallelism is ;me of the more common patterns in fuglish syntax. It I/ is also the most democratic. With parallelism, we are

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given pieces of information of equal syntactical importance, whether these chunks are clauses, organizing the sentence, or only modifiers, structurally unnecessary but crucial to precision (Like graveyard marble sculpture in the weather). Another predictable recurrence is instead hierarchical, like those diagrammed sentences in eighth graqe that threatened to wander off the right edge of the blackboard and onto the wall. In the syntactical pattern known as right-branching, modification follows in closest proximity to what it modifies; the listener or reader is not taxed to remember or anticipate the referent. This is one way to compensate in English for the lack of inflected word endings, which specifically indicate certain grammatical functions (we spell them out instead with function words, like prepositions). In the "language tree" linguists like to invoke, the trunk of the fundament branches off into limbs, which subdivide again and again into more limbs and, finally, twigs. In syntax that is right-branching (the linear direction of English), each new "chunk" is directly attached to, even seems to grow out of, what immediately preceded it:

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Back in a time (which time?) a time made simple (made simple how?) made simple by the loss (what kind of loss?) the loss of detail (what kind of detail?)

THE ART OF SYNTAX

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detail burned, dissolved, and broken off (how broken off?) like graveyard marble sculpture in the weather.

Frost is a master of branching syntax, the chunks reinforced by the poem's lines-this is one way he ap\ proximates speech. Right-branching, like parallelism, ·~ allows the elision ot function war s without loss of clarity, and elision characteriz;;both a great deal of regional speech idiom and the compression he prized in poetry. Back out of all this [unspecified noun] [which is] now too much for us [to handle]: it might take a few or a hundred readings to parse that, but we can. Again largely because ours is not an inflected language, so-called natural or normal English syntax places the controlling subject, verb, and object at the head of the sentence before branching off into elaboration, as in lines 18-19: You must not mind a certain coolness from him

Still said to haunt this side of Panther Mountain.

But there are many familiar exceptions to this fundament-first position. The branching syntax that opens "Directive" does not follow the independent clause (There is a house) but introduces and restricts it; this

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is a "periodic sentence" -the elaborate introductory material (modification) de ays the subject and predicate. The brain isn't perplexed: it knows to suspend comprehension until the fundament is revealed, the eye moving from twigs and branches to the trunk of the tree. Similar to this, but less linear, is when a modifying string of words is used as "interruptive" syntax-that is, subordinate material divides subject-verb-object one from another for suspenseful delay (lines 8-10): The road there

-ifyou'll let a guide direct you I

Who only has at

heart your getting lostMay seem ...

The markers "if" and "who" alert us that the upcoming chunks of language are subordinate to the deep structure, to be held in abeyance as we wait for the predicate. We can get the same signal from prepositions, like these that separate the verb from its object in lines 55-57:

I have kept hidden -in the instep arch I Of an old cedar at the watersideA broken drinking goblet . ..

THE ART OF SYNTAX

And so adept is the brain at retrieving the English fundament from elaborate surfaces that natural order may be partially or even entirely reversed, "inverted" an arrangement found not only in bad verse but some famously good poetry as well (''.About suffering they) were never wrong, the Old Masters .. :'). Inversion controls most interrogatory sentences (Where were they all not twenty years ago?), expletives (There is .. .), and dependent clauses that elide the subordinating pronoun (Great monolithic knees [which] the former town I Long since gave up pretense of keeping covered . .. ). Because inversions are so familiar to us in ordinary English speech, these examples by Frost sound every bit as natural as "natural" word order. Like the engine of a train, the fundament may appear almost anywhere in the sentence, pushing some of its boxcars and pulling others. Inverted, interruptive, introductory, periodic, elided, right-branching, parallel, hypotactic-these terms name common syntactical patterns, or surface structures, quickly recognized by the English-speaking brain, efficient delivery systems for often-complicated discursive information. They also identify a few of the tools writers in English use to manipulate pattern and variation, elements indispensable to any art. In literature, of course, syntax does more than deliver discursive information. Each of Frost's sentences

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is also an expressive organization of sound, placed in pleasing or provocative relation to other sentences. Compelling syntactical rhythm, like musical phrasing in Jourdain's description, "lacks the repetitive, evenly paced accentuations of measured rhythm ... [and] is built up by a succession of irregular sonic shapes that combine in various ways like the parts of a painting, sometimes hanging in exquisite balance, sometimes joining forces to gyrate or plunge or swirl:' Essentially, composers create a syntax, using rhythmic, melodic, and harmonic markers to create phrases or chunks with which to build "complex hierarchies"-such as when, Joudain says, [r]iding a melodic line, harmony wanders into unfamiliar territory then returns to momentary repose. Upon hearing this resolution, a brain groups the preceding notes, then readies itself to perceive the next progression. Lesser resolutions create lesser phrases that can be built into hierarchies of larger ones.

A similar set of lesser resolutions is at work in the following passage from Maeve Brennan's short story "The Poor Men and Women": The priest's mother was distracted with herself, wakeful, impenitent, heated in every part by a wearisome

THE ART OF SYNTAX

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discontent that had begun in her spirit very young. She wore herself out cleaning her house, going over her rooms with her dry violent hands, scraping and plucking and picking and rubbing the walls and floors and furniture, and stopping in the middle to clench her fingers tight, tight, tight, but not tight enough, never enough for her, there was no tightness hard and fast enough to satisfy her. Therefore she continued in want.

We can easily parse the separate grammatical units of Brennan's opening sentence: priest's mother/subject, was distracted/verb phrase, with herself/modifying prepositional phrase, etc. But as we sight-read, we are responding to the rhythms of the language stream, to its musical phrasing, and the compelling feature of this particular sentence sound is the self-correcting list that dominates its second half. When the predicate arrives-and there's no waiting as with Frost-we take its chunk in a single gulp: was-distracted-with-herself. Now that the fundament is in place, the woman's slightly odd, slightly vague condition is immediately elaborated (again, no waiting), for greater clarity, with three small red balls on the crib toy of the observation, three modifiers: wakeful, impenitent, heated ... ,

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the last of these a syntactical echo of the initial participle (distracted). But any balance or closure achieved by that frame is undone by subsequent right-branching, which overbalances the little list with yet more prepositions and a subordinate clause as the sentence continues to unfurl:

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wakeful, impenitent, heated in every part by a wearisome discontent that had begun in her spirit very young.

Isolated adjectives and a fat chunk: symmetrical in function, asymmetrical in rhythm. In the next sentence, which also puts the fundament first, parallel participial chunks accomplish a similar effect: She wore herself out cleaning her house, going over her rooms with her dry violent hands ... rubbing the walls and floors and furniture, and stopping in the middle ...

There is, however, a further complication. Midway in this sequence, following those again unbalancing prepositions (over . .. with), Brennan doubles the parallel-

THE ART OF SYNTAX

ism with a second, interior list, a clutch of unadorned, half-rhymed participles-scraping and plucking and picking and rubbing. And that triggers yet another interior list, this time compound objects (the walls and floors and furniture), and then explodes in a sort of editorial outburst: stopping in the middle to clench her fingers tight, tight, tight, but not tight enough, never enough for her, there was no tightness hard and fast enough to satisfy her.

Like an extended musical phrase, the sentence has a shape- it branches, swells, obsesses, idles, and swells again into perseveration across the comma splice and through a new independent clause to the period. If what is said, not how, were all that mattered, Brennan might have stopped here, with the revelation of character made dramatic and convincing by the accelerating repetition. But she scores her stories another way. The paragraph has a shape, too, the long second sentence undercut rhythmically and reinforced thematically: Therefore she continued in want. That final short assertion raps out judgment as unequivocally as a gavel. This huge variation in overall sentence length, and in the length of the chunks within the sentences, creates surprise and energy. Meanwhile, all three sentences share

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a declarative pattern-fundament at the head, modification trailing after it. This kind of sentence is sufficiently characteristic to be called part of Brennan's prose style, but so is the musical phrasing that shapes the paragraph into an arc: crescendo with abrupt denouement. The woman's furious discontent, and the unrelieved cost of it, are not only expressed in her actions but enacted in the song of the prose. The final fundament and its prepositional phrase (she continued in want) duplicate the paragraph's initial syntax (The priest's mother was distracted with herself), and thereby complete a frame within which the character frets and rages and cannot change. Stopping short of the earlier elaboration, its parallel and right-branching modification, this final, unadorned, simple declarative sentence clicks the passage shut like \ a coffin lid. It also marks the end of a "distinct musical shape;' the first large chunk of Brennan's "complex hierarchies;' her characteristic arrangements of pattern and variation, balance and asymmetry, repetition and surprise. By "characteristic;' we usually mean a writer's stylistic fingerprints: no one would ever confuse an unattributed paragraph by Brennan with a paragraph by, say, Hemingway or Henry James. In each case, the writer's preference for certain arrangements of syntax-the order of the words in the sentence, the order of the sentences themselves-is unmistakable. For the past

THE ART OF SYNTAX

one hundred years, poets have meanwhile been fretting about the poetic line, what it might be, what it can do, when released from a priori metric patterns. It is useful to remember that we write in sentences too, and that the infinite variations of generative syntax take another quantum leap when they can be reinforced, or reconfigured-rechunked-by the poetic line.

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